Coretechs

Alpha Centauri Jump Gate

One of the first jump gates built, Alpha Centauri jump gate is also one of the largest structures ever constructed. Impressive as it looks from the outside however, its innards are a puzzle made up of pieces that have long since stopped fitting together. Maintenance crews fight a daily battle to keep the gate from falling apart, and the needs of the station itself are often ignored as the priority to keep the jump gate structurally operational takes precedence. The security cameras, however, are always in top working condition. They scour and scan everything that comes and goes. Although a Consortium owned and governed territory, the Gaule Protectorate commits some resources to the gate’s upkeep as a move to safeguard both their own citizens and their footing with the Nouveau Limoges Accords, the treaty which keeps a delicate peace.

Orwellian level: high

Law level: high

Bordeaux Station

“All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” Ancient Terran Text

This tenspan, Galactic Destinations brings you to Bordeaux Station, a culture and society with a uniquely colorful recent history, and potentially an explosive future! We interviewed a local historian to get the inside scoop!

Bordeaux is very much a society born of a series of events perpetuated by its reaction to the Catastrophe. Here, the military, for some reason almost in its entirety, blasted off the station to apparently chase after some unseen assailants. They did not return for some time, a long time, in fact.

A coalition government was formed, born of like minded citizens without any particular status or class. Under this people’s ruling body, the station survived and even prospered to a degree. Food was rationed, repairs were organised, and artistic endeavors and activities were organised on a tenspanly basis to facilitate a healthy expression against the uncertainty of those darker times. 

A community of artists, poets, dancers began to form, born from the ashes of a time when the Black outside truly was empty. Thus they looked within, instead. Created stories, composed ballads, painted landscapes to provide an escape from the harsh reality while they waited, and hoped that the outside galaxy would return. 

And then it did. The military returned in ‘glory,’ announcing that the citizens were safe once again. The coalition government stepped down, the Protectorate placed its high ranking generals and colonels in positions of power to rule and maintain the peace. Curfews, legislation, and various other controls were quickly established to keep citizens happy and productive and the dancers and poets retreated into the shadows.

Rumors speak of poems now growing in anger, in volume, of new stories weaving tales of oppression and retribution, and of ballads singing hymns of revolution.  Whether true or not, through this time, the ruling military classes maintain that hardship is simply necessary for the citizens for the good of everyone, though they do so from opulent offices while eating imported foods and drink. 

Anonymous historian and citizen of Bordeaux

“...and to know that things never had been, nor ever could be much better or much worse–hunger, hardship, and disappointment being, so he said, the unalterable law of life.” Same Ancient Terran text

Orwellian level: medium

Law level: low

Cirque Centauri

Cirque Centauri, once a mecca of leisure, hospitality, and entertainment, is again open for business. Back in its Golden Era, the station was a luxury destination for travelers wishing to see death-defying acts, go on thrilling rides, bask in opulence, and sample delicacies from all over the star systems. At one time a thriving station with high-end hotels, galaxy-class restaurants, a spectacular circus, and the finest of recreational activities, Cirque Centauri was the gem of the system, with visitors traveling from far and wide to indulge in the station’s wonders and delights. Until it all came crashing down…

When the Catastrophe struck, explosions ripped through Cirque Centauri as the power grid overloaded. The blasts sent fires ravaging through the station, streets cracked and collapsed, buildings toppled, and tens of thousands of inhabitants and guests were killed in the waves of destruction.

Incredibly, a lucky few survived. In the aftermath, the survivors mainly tried to get by, salvaging what they could from the destruction. Communications were offline for the entire station, the docked starcruisers and other ships were too damaged to leave, and most of the pilots and travelers had perished. Cut off from the outside world, those left on the station banded together, performers alongside guests, to stay alive. As people recovered and made their way back to the center of the station, various groups vied for power and control, destroying buildings, sections of the station, and each other in the process. Eventually, the Gaule Protectorate rediscovered the station, and a contingent who wished to live together in harmony, with the help of Gaule soldiers, were able to oust those who were trying to simply dominate and control the station. Those disharmonious few fled outside of the walls of the Safe Zone generations ago. It is assumed that the unstable buildings and crumbling infrastructure took care of the uncomfortable problem they were, as nothing has been heard from them since.

The streets beneath the golden skyscrapers are cracked and full of debris now. The huge, Catastrophe ravaged buildings are an unstable hazard, in danger of toppling at any moment on those below. However, the ruins of previously well-groomed neighborhoods, posh hotels, and vibrant offices that were neglected, and in some cases destroyed, are now being slowly reclaimed from the destruction. As the decades passed, the station slowly started back down the path in an attempt to reclaim its former glory. Cirque Centauri is now in a phase some call “the Recovery.” The center of the station became the Safe Zone, which is slowly expanding outwards recovering and reclaiming more and more of what once was. To keep guests and residents safe, a wall has been erected around the perimeter of this zone. It is not recommended that anyone travels outside of it, though there are rumors that there are squatters living among the dangerous ruins.

With the reopening of the jump gates, and the slow improvement in the galaxy-wide economy, Cirque Centauri has opened its docking bays once more for guests. A big top, with two daily shows, has raised its striped tent, and luxury hotels have begun to reopen. Guests come to Cirque Centauri to relax, have adventures, bask in the luxuries offered, and sample delicacies not found anywhere else in the galaxy. Visitors come to shop in Moonlight Square Plaza, also called, “the Night Market,” as the high ceiling is programmed to always display an indigo sky full of twinkling stars. The marketplace sprung up organically around the circus, and has spread outward for generations. There is now a maze of stalls, booths, and kiosks, full of goods from all around the galaxy. One could wander for hours, playing games of chance, sampling delicacies, riding the rides, and being entertained by the wandering performers.

There are sumptuous treats to be had for those that can afford the rare delicacies, but many who live on the station cannot themselves afford to indulge. An outer portrayal of openness, friendliness, and a welcoming demeanor masks the undercurrent of mistrust and resentment on the part of some of the station’s residents. The station locals both hate and love their outside visitors. Love them for the revenue and wealth that guests will bring, but despise them for the dependency the Cirque folk feel on them, and there is a bitter gap between those with means and those without.

As the ancient saying goes, “The show must go on,” and this is the Greatest Show in the Galaxy! Tourists travel from far and wide, and from the spaces in between, to see the sights, taste the exotic foods, be entertained by the galaxy’s greatest performers of death-defying feats, and enjoy luxuries found nowhere else in the known universe.

Orwellian level: high

Law level: high

Moissan Station

"Look around when you have got your first mushroom or made your first discovery: they grow in clusters."
George Pólya

Before the Catastrophe, Moissan Station was the true gastronome’s destination. Its endless bays of food printing machines churned out a sea of every imaginable edible delight on a daily basis. A never-ending stream of shuttles transported these delicacies around the galaxy or, more often than not, those with the credits to spend right to the source itself.

The Catastrophe struck with merciless accuracy. On Moissan, the gigantic food processing units fell silent. No matter what effort enacted by the engineer chefs, these behemoths of gastronomic production lay silent and lifeless, refusing to replicate even the smallest, tasteless of morsels.

Very soon, starvation set in. Thousands died during those darkest of cycles, buried in mass graves in the ruins of the once opulent and much visited city center. These makeshift cemeteries, often spanning an entire thoroughfare, would serve as grim reminders of the fallen, and, soon after, as actual salvation for those left behind.

By some combination of the organic and decaying matter beneath and the uniquely nutrient rich atmosphere above, the ruins that housed these mass graves soon began to give life to a plethora of spores, mold, and fungus. This area with the darkest of histories was soon awash in every color and bio-luminescent glow nature could conceive of. Even more miraculous, many of these mycelial blooms were edible! In a tragically poetic turnabout, the remaining population would be saved.

There are those that postulate that this timeline is fraught with inconceivable mistakes, that the molds and mushrooms would not have been able to grow in time to save anyone. These same individuals would have us believe that some clan of cannibals has existed through the cycles on Moissan. But in the vacuum of space, a vacuum of knowledge will often be filled by the biggest and most ludicrous of tales. The simple truth is, we just don’t know exactly what occurred during those dark cycles.

What we do know is that today Moissan has begun to flourish, buoyed by a burgeoning trade in mycelial materials that are useful in everything from ration production to construction. This historic station truly is the epitome of natural balance. From death comes life, from hunger, sustenance, from adversity, triumph!

Orwellian level: high

Law level: low

Paris Spatiale

Paris Spatiale is a glorious contrast of past and present, an ever-present reminder of how even the mightiest can fall from grace. Once the very pinnacle of culture and engineering, the station is now characterized by colossal, empty skyscrapers and ruined museums. Fractured sculptures of heroes and beasts of legend cast ominous shadows in the perpetual twilight of a damaged fusion core. But there is also hope here. With the fragments of its former glory strewn around the station, one is reminded of the station as it once was, and as it could become again.

Orwellian level: low

Law level: high

Spirit of Botswana

Hundreds of years ago, the discovery of a diamond mine on Earth, in the country of Botswana, took the small country from near poverty to rapid growth and economic stability. In order to diversify, the government next poured resources into mining of a different sort. They became one of the premier innovators and forerunners of mining ice, in space.

Eventually, the massive Spirit of Botswana station was built. It quickly became the galaxy’s largest water purification plant, and was the home base for ice mining operations across the star systems. The once-landlocked country was now entirely focused on water, and they carried their innovations into the far corners of space, stretching out and providing water for the majority of the stations in the Sol and Alpha Centauri A systems.

This golden era of plenty was not to last, however. During the Catastrophe, most of the station’s air was vented into space, killing nearly everyone aboard. When the mechanic operating the enormous mechanical arms that secure ships and their towed cargo suffocated, a huge hauler, with an enormous chunk of ice in tow, was sent plummeting into the station. The hauler exploded as it crashed, and the damage from the detonation, as well as the collision of the ice with the station, turned the shipping bay and surrounding decks into slags of molten metal and caused enormous craters in the station. The blast also blew apart sections of the residential and downtown metropolitan areas of the station. Nearly all on board Spirit of Botswana were killed.

In fact, very few on Spirit of Botswana survived the Catastrophe that day, but some did, both station-side and those who were returning from mining expeditions. Together, they went on to rebuild and make the galaxy’s most important station operational once more. It took many cycles, but the water processing plants are finally back online. Starships once again make the loop out to Saturn, through the jump gate and back. The massive shipping bay has been repaired, though the scars of destruction can still be seen.

Today, the Aquatic Resources Corp manages the mining operations, providing jobs to those brave enough to risk life and limb out among the ice and stars. These brave souls hold the fate of the star systems in their hands; their precious cargo essential for life in space to continue.

Orwellian level: high

Law level: high

The Ghost of Mali

“It turned and bit! It turned and bit, And what was left behind them? The tractor swallowed soil and soul, And threw out blood behind them.” Local Oral History, The Ghost of Mali, Alpha Centauri System.

For those that live on The Ghost of Mali station, the Catastrophe marked the end of an era of unquestioning trust and the beginning of an age of skepticism and fear of technology. Once a highly automated agricultural station, the mass destruction that occurred during the Catastrophe was credited to the malfunction of the multitude of machines and, despite the First Law, residents have grown hateful and suspicious of technology ever since. For some, that ignorance-bred fear may be authentic, but for others, this convenient excuse is seized upon in order to exploit cheap labor in the form of bond servants.

Words of a Laborer I have worked my hands to the bone on The Ghost of Mali. My sweat feeds the ground and pumps through the vines for the nourishment of fat stargourds and towering sugarcane. The bladed leaves gnaw and tear, painting the stalks with the blood of my dying lineage. For my family, the station has been a labor prison, now three generations deep. We are exploited as the punchline of a joke, bathed in ignorance and fear. Here, they fear technology and higher functioning machines. Here, the demand for constant productivity is so thick that they use bond servants for the on-going agricultural work. People are kept quiet and in-line with this pervasive fear painting the boundaries of our freedom.

The preparing. The planning. The planting. The tending. The tiling. The harvest. The clearing. The preparing. The planning.

On and on, this cycle flows, momentum motivated by the belief that the Catastrophe devastated The Ghost of Mali only by the use of their own machines as weapons. It is a strongly held, strange belief. There was a great shaking of the station, the full power grid flickered, then stabilized. All of the station’s technology seemed to turn on us. We were to be purged and tilled over like the turning of the fields. The storytellers of the Farmers’ Market, with the cultural tradition of history being that of an oral nature, sing warnings to those that pass by. Not to celebrate a time that has passed, but rather to incite pride in what will be: the resistance to change and the station’s wealth, ever growing through the production of produce.

The Aftermath My family was never found guilty of a crime. This sentence is one of forced social strata. When the machines turned on the station, having churned bodies and flooded fields, those families with the ability to claim and defend strips of farmland, uncontested, were the victors. Human progress which feeds upon class discrimination knows no boundaries of humanitarian ethics. I come from gentle people, but the gentle people were starving. All of us who wished for unity, community, and negotiation were overwhelmed and outnumbered by the aggressive few. We were eventually offered food, but the price was to submit and to serve. Our survival depended on this submission and servitude. So, we did, and so we still do.

The Ghost of Mali remains largely unchanged since those early days after the Catastrophe. A handful of families hold control of the local oversight of the station while the rest of us work under the guise of paying off the debt of our existence. We are reminded to be grateful to those we serve: without their mercy we would have starved. But perhaps the time is coming where those in control will falter. It doesn’t take long for humanity to swallow their fear and begin to fight with an uprising. Allies can be found in the strangest of places.

It doesn’t take long for a resistance to be born. About three generations.

Orwellian level: low

Law level: high

Yards of Gadani

The Yards of Gadani is known for two things: its ship breaking yards, and its reduced gravity. During the Catastrophe, a freighter slated for decommissioning exploded with enough force to slow the station’s rotation, causing untold death and destruction as buildings shifted, collided, and collapsed around the hapless citizens.

In the years since, its residents have gradually adapted to life with less gravity, and it has become home to many Belters; those long-limbed individuals who have adapted over the centuries to lower gravity environments. After the Catastrophe, Belters from all over the two star systems, Sol and Alpha Centauri, rushed to this station, enchanted with the idea of having a home that wasn’t a ship, where they could finally stretch their legs.

The Yards of Gadani also attracts a regular stream of visitors of all genotypes; some looking for parts with which to repair their starships, while others come hoping to purchase a new (to them) vessel from the shipyards. Those seeking parts find themselves wandering the Bazaar; a marketplace of colorful stands and merchant tents, overflowing with salvaged goods harvested from the ship breaking yards. And those looking for a new ship have a motley crew from which to choose. There are no sleek, shiny corvettes here. Instead, they find a selection of Frankenships, cobbled together from recycled and found parts which more often than not don’t match each other in any way. At times, however, the sundry pieces torn from the metal and plastic carcasses on the ship breaking yards create a more powerful, faster, whole.

Gadani is a massive station, built to be able to swallow up broken and disabled ships and spit out their bones. Workers toil in dangerous conditions on the yards, both within and on the outside of the station’s asteroid. They swarm like ants over enormous retired ships, stripping them down and turning them into scrap. The decreased gravity within the asteroid makes the hard work both easier and more dangerous. The lower gravity makes it possible for workers to move and handle massive objects that would normally require heavy machinery or twice the effort. On the yards, the hulls of starships rise up many stories, their exposed metal girders like fleshless skeletons. Outside of the station, ships that are too large to bring into the asteroid float, dead in space, waiting their turn to be tethered down to the outer shell of the asteroid, where they will come to their final rest, their insides slowly being carved away by scavengers searching for scrap metal and anything that can be reused.

The residents of the Yards of Gadani have adapted to and are flourishing in the buoyant environments both inside and outside of the station. Ships from all over the star systems, from those only large enough to carry a single pilot, to the massive leviathans that once provided luxury star-cruises, pass their final days here in the ship breaking yards. However, nothing goes to waste in a post-Catastrophe society, and every piece, part, and salvaged good goes on to find a new purpose and to live another life.

Orwellian level: medium

Law level: medium